


Re-enlist

by WritingIsReality



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confessions, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9252188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingIsReality/pseuds/WritingIsReality
Summary: It's been a year since his best friend fell, and everyone has forgotten. Everyone but him. There are two occasions in John's life in which he didn't feel alone, when he felt needed. The first was when he was in Afghanistan. The second was when he was with Sherlock. The latter had been stolen from him, and he was going to re-enlist in the former. John Watson was going back to Afghanistan, and he was going to go out with a bang. Pity he didn't know that his decision would bring a dead man out of hiding.





	

**Author's Note:**

> After what we were forced to bear witness to in the newest 'Sherlock' episode, let's pretend that the first two seasons of 'Sherlock' are the only seasons of 'Sherlock.'

A lot can change in a year.

Lives are gained. Lives are lost. Lives are changed –sometimes irreparably.

The world had moved on. No one cared to discuss the suicide of the fraudulent, genius detective exactly a year prior. No one cared to remember him the way he should have been remembered, the way he deserved to be remembered. Slowly, unwittingly, people had stopped asking how he was, how he was doing and where he was going. They stopped trying to assist in easing the burden, the pain; and then, they simply stopped altogether. 

John Watson had lived a solitary life for longer than he cared to admit, the only reprieve being during his service in Afghanistan and then when he had met Sherlock; when his life was changed irrevocably and for the better. But that was a while ago, now. In fact, it may as well have been a lifetime.

A lot can change in a year.

The people and the world around John Watson had changed. What hadn’t changed was his pain, his loneliness and his grief. The problem with witnessing a supernova is that you are temporarily blinded after the fact. Sherlock had been his supernova, and his blindness was never-ending. He longed for a spectre that he knew would never again materialise in this mortal coil the way he wished it would. He had asked for a miracle. He had asked for Sherlock to not be dead. That was a year ago, and John Watson no longer believed in miracles.

He hadn’t changed at all in a year, and he doubted that he ever would. His life’s purpose had fallen along with his best friend, and there was no longer anything left for him in London. John Watson didn’t need to have his medical degree to recognise the signs of depression the moment he had begun exhibiting them. Though he had not yet acted, he knew that his time had come.

Thus, John Watson tackled this challenge with a sound; logical reasoning that he liked to think would have made Sherlock proud. It has already been discerned that the only times in his life that he didn’t feel alone was when he was in Afghanistan, and when he was with Sherlock. Only one of those options was available to him now, and it was with this knowledge that John Watson reenlisted in the army and scheduled his return to Afghanistan.

If he was going to go out, then he was going to go out with a bang.

Pun definitely intended.

 

*#*#*#

 

_How is it going? – MH_

_We both know you’re not one for idle chatter, Mycroft. What do you want? – SH_

_It’s recommended that you turn your attention back to Baker Street. – MH_

_Why? You said it stood empty? – SH_

_Don’t be daft, brother mine. We both know I mean John. – MH_

_What about him? Is he alright? What’s happened? – SH_

_He’s fine, for now. – MH_

_Don’t be tedious, Mycroft. Stop beating around the bush and tell me what I need to know! – SH_

_Though I do hate to admit when I’m wrong, it would appear that he hasn’t been coping as well as I had hoped. He’s recently reenlisted. He’s going back to Afghanistan. – MH_

_You have to stop him! Why have you not yet attempted to stop him? – SH_

_Your lack of confidence pains me. Of course I’ve attempted to stop him. Short of tampering with his paperwork, there’s nothing that I can do. – MH_

_So tamper with his paperwork! Don’t you claim to be the smart one? – SH_

_Despite what you may think, little brother, I’m not in the habit of ruining lives. If this is what he wants, truly wants, then I shan’t be the one to stop him. – MH_

_When does he deploy? – SH_

_Next week. – MH_

_I will be in London within the next 48 hours. Inform Mrs Hudson. Get rid of that paperwork. – SH_

_Perhaps it would be best to discuss the matter with John before being quite so melodramatic? – MH_

_Get rid of the paperwork, Mycroft, or the front cover of tomorrow’s_ Daily Mail _will be plastered with the ‘fat camp’ photographs that you delude yourself into thinking were never taken. – SH_

_I have always found blackmail to be the method of persuasion used by common criminals and those of lesser intelligence, but no matter. The paperwork has been taken care of. Try not to get caught, brother dear, you know how it upsets me to see mummy cry.  – MH_

*#*#*#

 

He’d been back to Baker Street only once since it happened. That occasion had been the day of the fall, when he walked straight in the door, up to his room and packed the necessities. He walked straight back down and out the front door, never to return again. He couldn’t bear to look around the apartment then and, one year on, he still couldn’t conceive of returning and having to confront the memories once again. It hurt too damned much.

It is for this reason that the very urgent, very emotional text sent by Molly Hooper irked him. She’d contacted him, begging him to meet her inside 221B for a matter that could not, and would not wait. She refused to elaborate.

John didn’t want to go. He really, _really_ didn’t want to go. But his conscience would never rest or let him forgive himself if something terrible happened to Molly Hooper when he had been given the opportunity to prevent it. So, he swallowed his pride, attempted to reign in his trepidation, and he made his way to Baker Street. The moment the block of flats came into view, however, he ground to a halt and his heart began to hammer painfully in his chest. John was on the verge of a panic attack and he truly could not fathom why. A year had passed. Why had he not yet gotten over it yet? Everyone else had. He swallowed thickly and forced his legs, one in front of the other, to carry him to the door, where he knocked hesitantly and waited.

“Coming!” A cheery voice called from inside, and John couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his face at the familiarity of the sound. He had missed Mrs Hudson.

“John!” She greeted before she opened the door, appraising him once she did and smiling warmly.

“How did you know it was me?”

Her smile faltered but she recovered quickly. “It’s all in the knock, dear,” she said conspiratorially. “Come in! Come in! Would you like some tea?”

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs Hudson. Molly Hooper asked me to meet her here urgently. Perhaps after we’re done?”

“Of course! Of course! She’s already upstairs, you know. Off you go. I’ll have a hot cup waiting for you.”

He smiled genuinely and bowed his head. “Thank you.”

She grinned encouragingly at him, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She seemed… worried. Perhaps whatever had happened to Molly was worse than he had anticipated. Concern fresh and anew, John climbed the stairs hurriedly and paused in front of the apartment’s door. He gathered his courage, took a deep breath and twisted the knob, letting himself in quietly. He then closed the door softly behind him and looked into the living room that he had tried to avoid thinking about for the better part of a year. Molly Hooper stood awkwardly in the middle of it, shifting her weight from one foot to another and looking, for all intents and purposes, like she would rather be anywhere but where she was. She fumbled with her hands and looked at him. “Hello, John.”

“Molly,” he greeted hesitantly, looking about the room in an attempt to see what it was that had her so frazzled. “Is everything alright?”

“I –yes. Everything is fine. I just – I – I just wanted you to see something.”

John quirked an eyebrow and inclined his head. “Oh?”

“Yes,” she stated firmly, overtaken by a will of confidence.

John stepped further into the room and approached her.  She smiled at him sadly and walked right past him, making her way to the door. She placed her hand on the knob and looked back at him. “I am sorry,” she said, truthfully. “Please, forgive me.”

“Molly, wha –‘’

But she turned the knob and stepped out the door before he could finish his question, a soft click echoing behind her after she closed it.

John’s features morphed into one of confusion and he looked about the room. It seemed to have been recently cleaned. In fact, the entire flat appeared to be spotless; the most ordered and tidy that he had ever seen it. It filled him with a dreaded sense of unease.

John was confused. Molly had given him nothing in way of an answer as to why his presence was needed, and being in this flat after so long was resurrecting ghosts that he would rather have kept buried. He sighed, annoyed at having wasted a trip and for the unnecessary emotional turmoil that the endeavour had caused him. He turned to the door, irritated, and was about to reach out a hand to grasp the knob when he heard a baritone sound from behind him, one that he thought he would never have the privilege of hearing again.

“John.”

He froze where he stood, his entire body going rigid. John knew he hadn’t been coping well with Sherlock’s death, but he had yet to find himself becoming delusional. Hearing voices though, now that was worrying. He shook his head, banishing the spectre from his mind before reaching for the knob again.

“John.”

He whirled around, knocking over the table that stood next to the door and the vase that sat on top along with it. The delicate piece of china went crashing to the ground, but neither man broke their gaze to acknowledge it.

John stared at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving up and down. Sherlock stood there, regal as always, suit crisp and fitted on his now thinner frame. Sherlock’s hands were in his pockets, in an attempt to look cool and collected, but he was sheepish and it could be discerned that, for possibly the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes did not know what was about to happen.

When his counterpart made no attempt to speak or move, Sherlock ventured, hesitantly. “Hello, John.”

A sharp intake of breath was all that he got in reply. Sherlock scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and tried again. “I, uh. I can explain.”

In one swift movement, John turned around and grasped the doorknob, pulling with all his might, his only thought being that he needed to get out of there, and out of there _now._ Unfortunately for him, the door groaned, but it did not budge.

“Open this door,” he murmured calmly.

“John. I –‘’

“SHERLOCK HOLMES! YOU OPEN THIS BLOODY DOOR AND YOU OPEN RIGHT NOW!”

His outburst shocked the detective and he, involuntarily, took a step back. John’s breathing was heavy. It was forced and laboured, and he had yet to turn around and acknowledge Sherlock formally.

“I can’t,” Sherlock said quietly.

John laughed without humour. “You can’t?” He whirled around. “You can’t? But didn’t you know? You’re Sherlock Holmes, the man who can do anything! The man who can, apparently, crawl out of his own grave and even come back from the dead!”

“John, please. Let me –‘’

“Explain?! Oh no. Oh no no no no. No. NO! You! YOU DON’T GET TO DO THIS!” He turned back around and gave the doorknob a vicious tug. “Open this door,” he demanded.

“I can’t.’’

“SHERLOCK! OPEN THIS DOOR! OR SO HELP ME GOD –‘’

“I don’t have a key.”

That stopped John short. He turned around and glared at Sherlock. “You don’t have a key?” He deadpanned. Sherlock looked at him wearily and said nothing.

“Oh my god,” John started. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and looked to the ceiling. “You don’t have a key _. Of course_! Of course you don’t have a key!”

“John, perhaps –‘’

“What are you doing, Sherlock? WHAT _ARE YOU DOING?”_

“If you lowered your voice and stopped being quite so melodramatic, John, I would be more than happy to tell you.”

John gaped at him. “Melodramatic? Melo – oh my god. I can’t. I honest to god can’t.”

“I wasn’t aware that you had become so religious, John,” Sherlock said smartly. He barely had time to duck as John threw the closest thing he had in arm’s reach at Sherlock’s head. It happened to be a very rare, very _fragile_ porcelain idol crafted by the Aztec’s many millennia ago. It was one of Sherlock’s most prized possessions, and it had just shattered on the mantelpiece right behind him. Determinedly, and perhaps wisely, Sherlock chose not to comment on that fact.

John,” Sherlock tried, _again._ “John, I realise that this is a lot to take in. I understand that you’re angry –‘’

“You idiot. YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT! You really have no idea, do you? An entire year away and you have still yet to learn the ‘intricacies of the human condition’, haven’t you?!”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut and he said nothing.

“Speechless,” John murmured sarcastically. “First time in your life, when you have everything to explain, you’re speechless. That’s just… that’s just fantastic.”

Tiredly, John rubbed a hand down his face. This entire interaction could not have been going on for more than ten minutes and he was already exhausted.

“Why are you here, Sherlock?” He asked suddenly.

“I thought it was time I –‘’

“No,” John interrupted him, harshly. “Why are you _really_ here?” Sherlock didn’t fail to notice that John’s hand had moved to rest on the doorknob once again.

“You reenlisted,” Sherlock said miserably.

“And?”

“I couldn’t let that happen. You can’t just voluntarily go and get yourself killed, John. You’re too important to –‘’

“Hang on. It’s alright for you to voluntarily go and get yourself ‘killed,’ but it’s not alright for me? Who the _hell_ do you think you are, Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t know why you did it, John. I don’t know what you hoped to gain from it, but I can’t let you –‘’

“YOU WERE DEAD!” John yelled, loud enough to rattle the windows. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and stared at John, beseechingly. The silence stretched and John grew more aggravated.

“Right, well, that’s that then. I deploy first thing tomorrow morning, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be going now to finish my packing and finalise my arrangements. Please unlock this door.”

“I already told you, John, I can’t. I don’t have a key.”

“If I don’t report for duty first thing tomorrow morning, they’ll identify me as absconding and they will find me for prosecution. Just once in your life admit defeat. Not even you’re powerful enough to make paperwork disappear. You’ve lost Sherlock, now let me out.”

Sherlock looked to the floor guiltily and John’s heart dropped. The doctor narrowed his eyes in rage and anticipated what was going to come out of Sherlock’s mouth next.

“I may not be powerful enough to make paperwork disappear, but –‘’

“Mycroft is.” John stared at Sherlock, incredulous and utterly dumbfounded. “Jesus, you’re insane.”

“Please, John. Try and understand.”

“YOU. ARE. INSANE!”

It was Sherlock’s turn to glare, and the detective decided that this conversation had already gone on long enough. They were simply running in circles.

“Molly Hooper is the only one with a key to this flat. She is gone now, and has been given strict instructions to return in exactly one week’s time. Your entire regiment will have departed by then, by which time I hope that you will have come to your senses. I don’t know why you’re so ready to squander your life, John, but I won’t allow it.”

John shook his head and his back hit the door. This was unbelievable. It was incomprehensible. It was too much, yet it was too little, all at the same time. He didn’t know where to look. He didn’t know what to think. His entire being was being assaulted by both information and sensory overload. John couldn’t make sense of anything that was happening. But, more than that, he couldn’t look at the man that stood across from him. Acknowledging him was just too painful. His presence was something that John couldn’t wrap his head around. He couldn’t make sense of what was happening, never mind rationalise it. The panic that had been waiting, welling deep within his stomach, was beginning to bubble to the surface. The only thing that John knew in that moment, without any shadow of a doubt, was that he needed to get out of there. He needed to get out of there _now,_ or was going to lose it.

“I can’t do this,” he gasped, pushing himself off of the door. “I just – I – I can’t do this.” John barrelled past Sherlock on unsteady, gelatinous legs and took the stairs two at a time, seeking the sanctuary of his bedroom. It was a place that he never thought he would see again, but one which, he realised; he would have to endure for the next seven days. John sat on the edge of his bed and covered his mouth with his hand. He tried to control the shuddering gasps that wracked him intermittently, but it was all in vain. His body shook from head to toe and his head reeled with everything that had just happened.

Sherlock Holmes, his best and only friend, the man without whom John’s life held no purpose, was alive. He was alive and he was well. It’s all John Watson could ever have hoped and wished for. The miracle he begged day and night for had finally been granted, and he had absolutely no idea what to do with it.

This was a joyous moment. His relief was palpable and his heart soared at the knowledge that Sherlock was back and with him once again. So why then, with every breath that he took, did it hurt so damned much? This was the best possible outcome that he ever could have hoped for. So why did he feel like he had been totally and irreparably betrayed? He’d fantasised about this moment more times than he cared to count. In these fantasies, he had been filled with joy and purpose and hope and relief and love. He never, for a single moment, anticipated that his heartfelt fantasy would ever become true. He also didn’t anticipate that, out of all the emotions that he carried in his arsenal, the only one that he would feel in this moment, white hot and undeniable, would be resentment.

In this moment, in this very moment in time, he _hated_ Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn’t entirely sure that it was something that he would be able to easily overcome – especially not within the short duration of a single week.

 

*#*#*#

 

Sherlock had no idea what to do.

John had yet to surface from the sanctuary of his room since he had first fled from Sherlock; after what Sherlock now deemed to be “The Big Reveal.” That was two days ago, two entire days ago. John had been in his room for two whole days, and it was driving Sherlock absolutely, frustratingly mad.

He had no idea what to do. He felt extremely vulnerable and totally incompetent, because he _always_ knew what to do. John had been in his room for two days, and it felt to Sherlock like he was reliving the last two years instead – watching, waiting, and feeling totally, _totally_ alone.

Sherlock didn’t believe in fate; idle coincidences just didn’t occur, and people were solely in control of their lives and their futures. He didn’t believe in a higher power, but upon hearing the opening of John’s door and his footsteps descending the stairs, he wanted to thank whatever deity may have been responsible. He’d been gathering his courage, trying to muster the gall and go up to John’s room to confront him, to tell him how utterly ridiculous he was being. Thankfully, fate appeared to be playing its hand, and it was in Sherlock’s favour.

The thought had only just formulated in his mind when Sherlock inhaled sharply as John came into view. He looked awful, absolutely awful. A black cloud of regret settled itself above Sherlock, and he hated the fact that he was responsible for John looking the way he did.  John was wearing a set of pyjamas that were slightly too large for him, but Sherlock was happy with himself for having had the foresight of stocking John’s closet with some necessities. John had the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow, and the already noticeable circles beneath his eyes were even more pronounced. Although he walked into the kitchen with determination, he looked like a man beaten down and Sherlock felt the breath halt in his chest. He was seated in his chair, having a perfect view of the kitchen, and he was able to appraise John adequately from this position. He hated himself when he saw it. Truly, truly hated himself; because all he could see when he looked at the face of John Watson were cloudy eyes that were absolutely dead.

This was all his doing, and his fault entirely. The knowledge made he feel sick.

John busied himself in the kitchen, scrounging as much food as he could, no doubt starving from going two days without a meal, and likely stockpiling so that he wouldn’t have to come back down again. Sherlock watched this process with interest, almost smiling when John put the kettle on to boil and began to make himself a cup of tea. _Some things never change,_ Sherlock thought fondly, though his happiness quickly drained away when he realised that John had yet to acknowledge him. In fact, it appeared that John was steadfastly _ignoring_ him. Though not entirely unexpected, it certainly isn’t what Sherlock had anticipated, and his eyes continued to follow the movements of John Hamish Watson as he bustled about in the kitchen. Sherlock yearned for the answer to come to him, for the plan of action that always followed his deductions to blossom in his mind. The problem, of course, was that Sherlock was finding himself unable to deduce John at the present moment; he was also finding it incredibly hard to breathe.

“John?” He ventured, surprised to be hearing his own voice as it pierced the silence. He wasn’t surprised, however, when his utterance garnered no response.

“John?” Sherlock tried again, only to be brought short when the other man let out an angry sigh that swelled with both rage and frustration.

“Look,” Sherlock started, rising from his set. “I know that –‘’

“I could just put it on the blog, you know.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his heart started beating rapidly, though he was at a loss. “What?” He asked in confusion.

“ ‘Sherlock Holmes, ‘ “ John said sarcastically, raising his hands to eye level in mockery of a newspaper headline, “ ‘The Consulting Detective who fooled us all.’ Surely it’s why you’ve left me armed with my cell phone?”

Sherlock smiled at him sadly. “You know why I haven’t taken away your phone, John.” When all his counterpart did was raise an eyebrow, he elaborated. “Firstly, you’re my friend, not my prisoner,” John snorted derisively, “and secondly,” Sherlock soldiered on, “I know that you would never do it.” When John made no move to answer, Sherlock began to step forward. “You would never sell me out. My faith in you is unwavering, just like your own once was for me.”

He couldn’t take it. He absolutely couldn’t take it. John made to push past Sherlock and retreat back up the stairs, but the detective planted a hand firmly on his shoulder and pushed him back into the kitchen.

“Sherlock…” He warned, gnashing his teeth together and turning back around to face the kitchen counter. He attempted to compose himself by breathing deeply and fiddling with his tea, all the while plotting his best method of escape back to his room.

“Short from hitting me over the head with your cup of tea, John, you’ll find that there is no viable opportunity for you to leave this kitchen until we have discussed the matter at hand. Sherlock jumped when John slammed his fist down onto the kitchen countertop. He’d seen John angry before, but this felt different... it felt like a wrong that could never possibly be made right. The thought made Sherlock sick to his stomach. Yet, as quickly as it came, John’s anger appeared to vanish. He began to bustle about the kitchen, preparing a revoltingly extravagant meal for himself and blatantly ignoring Sherlock all the while.

“John,” Sherlock said tiredly, hand coming up to rub at his tired eyes. “You can’t possibly hope to wait me out.”

And still, John said nothing. Minutes continued to pass, and time wore on. John’s meal grew and grew in its decadence, and Sherlock was positive that the entire contents of the kitchen would be eradicated in John’s pursuit of ignoring Sherlock and hoping that the problem would go away.

Unfortunately for him, he had no such luck. Sherlock’s trepidation quickly turned to irritation, and he stepped forward so that his entire person was up against John’s own. He grabbed his wrist and forced John to drop what he was holding – ironically, it was a knife. Sherlock reached for John’s other hand. He was in such vicious pursuit of John’s undivided attention that he neither anticipated, nor managed to react, to the blow that John’s enclosed fist dealt to his jaw. Sherlock stumbled back, but recovered quickly. John had turned back around to continue with his task, acting as if nothing had happened.

“Do it again,” Sherlock murmured quietly. John ignored him.

“Do it again,” Sherlock repeated, stalking closer to his counterpart. Still, John ignored him.

“FOR GOD’S SAKE JOHN, LOOK AT ME!”

He noticed, with grim satisfaction, that John jumped at his harsh tone, yet he still did not turn around.

“Hit me, John,” Sherlock started. “Yell at me! Just do something!” He made to grab John’s shoulder again, but the shorter man whirled around.

“Do. Not. Touch. Me.” He whispered murderously, but Sherlock had had enough.

“THEN ACKNOWLEDGE ME!” He hollered, grabbing John by the neck of his t-shirt and pushing him into the edge of the counter so that he had no hope of escape. “Acknowledge this,” Sherlock begged. “Acknowledge what has happened!” His voice was wrought with emotion; it cracked under the sheer intensity of the situation and all of its implications. For a moment, all that could be heard in the small, silent confines of the flat was heavy, ragged breathing. Sherlock tried his best to appraise the situation; to deduce what was happening and anticipate what his friend was thinking, perhaps what he might do next. Although John didn’t look at him, he didn’t move away either, and so Sherlock seized the opportunity. The words tumbled out of his mouth, unbidden and unmoderated. They were pure and raw, and there was no doubt that every single one of them was true. He explained to John, step-by-step, what had actually happened. He took him through every thought, every process, every procedure that he’s had to ensure, all in an attempt to make John _understand._ John needed to know why he had done the things he had done, why he had done them in the way in which he had. That he had absolutely no other choice.

John listened. He didn’t interrupt, he didn’t move, and he didn’t react. But when Sherlock finally, _finally,_ finished his explanation, his unerring monologue of honesty and truth, John looked at him. He looked up at him, with eyes that were wide and open and bare, and the root of all of Sherlock’s conflict – of both his happiness, and his misery.

Sherlock held his breath.

“I can’t do this.” Was all John said. He moved past Sherlock, the taller man’s hand, previously fisted in John’s shirt, fell limply to his side. Again, John took the steps two at a time and closed his bedroom door firmly behind him once he had reached his destination.

Sherlock looked around him, at the once lively room that had held all of his happiness, and swallowed thickly. For the first time in a long time, hopelessness gnawed at his gut. He retreated back to his chair and sat down, lacing his hands and resting them beneath his chin.

The situation seemed hopeless, but that certainly didn’t mean that he was going to give up. It wasn’t who he was, and John Watson knew that better than anyone else could ever hope to. That had to count for something.

 

*#*#*#

 

And so another day passed. There had been no progress and there had been no change. Sherlock granted John his space, he was very clearly in dire need of it, but he also gave himself a deadline for allowance, and that time was now up. It was early evening and John had yet to emerge from upstairs. Sherlock hadn’t heard any movement coming from upstairs throughout the entire day, which meant that John had climbed into bed and not gotten out.

This worried him.

Sherlock got up from where he was seated and ascended the stairs with determination. He opened the door to John’s room quietly and stepped in. The room was still and silent except for the slight patter of rain as it fell against the window above the bed. Sherlock looked at John’s prone form and knew immediately from his breathing pattern that he was awake – though he attempted to pretend otherwise.

John lay on his back, his head facing as far away from Sherlock as was humanly possible, and he looked to be completely catatonic. Sherlock steeled himself and, with the stealth of a cat, he approached the bed and crawled onto the vacant side. John’s breath hitched and his eyes opened, though he stared determinedly at the wall and did not acknowledge Sherlock.

The initial shock passed, yet the moment wore on, both men on the precipice of an unidentifiable limbo which had the potential to change everything. Although it was dark and difficult to see, Sherlock could make out John’s profile even though he wasn’t facing him. He looked defeated.

It didn’t require a moment’s thought for Sherlock to reach over and grasp the hand furthest from him, tugging lightly and willing John to roll over and face him. Surprisingly, John turned voluntarily, though he closed his eyes again as he did so. Sherlock gently grasped his jaw and John shivered, inhaling a shaky breath. It was all the confirmation Sherlock needed, and it was also an answer to his silent question.

He leaned forward and kissed John firmly on the lips. There was a moment of hesitation, a moment of petrification where Sherlock thought, perhaps, that he had deduced wrong. But then John responded to the kiss and his hand reached up to grasp Sherlock’s own where it had traversed to his jaw. Although John had yet to say anything about Sherlock’s appearance or his explanation, his body told Sherlock everything that his mind never could.

_I believe you._

The kiss deepened. Sherlock found himself quickly getting lost in it. The whole situation was entirely new, and the accompanying sensations overwhelmed him. It’s only when he tasted salt that he was really brought back to reality. He withdrew the moment he realised what it was and immediately began uttering apologies. John was crying, and this too was his fault.

“I – I’m sorry,” Sherlock stammered yet again. He moved away from John quickly, mortification settling deep within him as he rose to leave, but a strong, tanned arm grabbed his own and halted all progress.

“Don’t,” John said firmly. “You’ve already left me once. Don’t do it again.”

Immediately Sherlock lay back down, powerless to deny John anything. John’s eyes are open and staring at him in wonder; an expression he thought he’d never see again and one which he knew he certainly didn’t deserve.

“You bastard,” John’s face screws tight in an expression of pain and anguish. “You utter, fucking _bastard.”_

Sherlock tried to apologise again, something which he had done excessively over the last few days, but he was cut off when John’s lips met his own and he was once again transported back to that place, where all he could do was _feel._

Whereas John had been catatonic before, he was completely manic now. He kissed Sherlock thoroughly, and though he was inexperienced, Sherlock responded with equal fervour.

John planted his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and moved to lie under him. His tongue clashed with Sherlock’s own and he smiled when he felt the detective’s breathing become ragged. John ran his hands through the curls of Sherlock’s hair and the younger of the two pulled back suddenly, biting his bottom lip as the sensory overload became too much. He rested his forehead against John’s neck and breathed deeply, inhaling a smell that he had feared he would never encounter again.

When combined with the thrum of John’s pulse through his neck, Sherlock found himself frenzied.  John choked on his own surprise when he felt Sherlock’s tongue dart out and relish the spot. As if to take ownership, Sherlock nipped the area, forming a slight bruise, before trailing his mouth slowly up John’s neck so that their mouths could make contact once again. He parted John’s lips with ease and apologised profusely, again and again, as he ravished his mouth thoroughly. Sherlock reached up and grasped one of John’s hands from where it lay, clutching at his hair. He laced their fingers and held on tight, communicating emotions far more significant than simple lust through the connection.

John’s hand clutched Sherlock’s tightly, and he nipped at the ample lips which were at his disposal. Sherlock gasped and reeled back, staring at John intently. Worried that he had overstepped the bounds, John sat up to talk it through; only, he was forced back against the sheets as Sherlock latched onto him and snuck his hands up John’s shirt. It was his turn to gasp now, and he made short work of Sherlock’s suit jacket before he began unbuttoning his dress shirt.

Although unspoken, both men knew that they would go no further that night. Their pace lessened, and eventually the pair found themselves tangled in each other’s arms, broaching new territory simply by touching and feeling each other, learning and relearning what both had thought had been lost forever.

Their dynamic had shifted. The change in their relationship, though not entirely unexpected, was novel. The implications were vast and the stakes had just been raised. Though it was something that would, undoubtedly, need to be addressed, neither man felt compelled to do so. They had lost everything and then gained it back in only a couple of days, and neither of them had slept.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t long before they both drifted off, still intertwined around each other. Both men slept soundly, knowing that the other would be exactly where they were when the sun rose in the morning. The rest was simply formalities, and they would follow in due course.

 

*#*#*#

 

Sherlock woke the next morning to an empty bed and absolute, blind panic. His eyes scattered about the room, desperately trying to locate John. His composure was on the border of cracking when he forced himself calm and listened. Quietly, faintly, he could hear the boiling of the kettle downstairs. He fell back onto the bed in relief and relaxed immediately.

Sherlock allowed himself a few minutes to collect himself, and then he made his way downstairs. Unsurprisingly, John was in the kitchen, making a cup of tea and appraising the pile of food that he’d left out yesterday to rot with disgust. He turned his head when he heard the patter of Sherlock’s footsteps and smiled gently when the man in question came into view. Sherlock shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, and John found his vulnerability to be endearing.

“Want a cup?” John asked, raising his own. When Sherlock stared at him without answering, John continued, wickedly. “It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and the tension was broken. He flounced onto his chair and drawled. “Don’t be _obvious_ , John.”

John turned around and poured another cup, hiding his smile. He made the tea the way he knew Sherlock liked it and walked into the lounge, thrusting the cup beneath the detective’s nose and sinking into his own chair with a contented sigh.

Sherlock looked at the cup and then at John. “I never said I wanted –‘’

“You didn’t have to,” replied John, sipping from his cup and smirking at Sherlock’s dumbfounded expression.

The pair then sat in silence and sipped at their tea intermittently. John appeared calm and collected, and Sherlock appeared to be anything but. The shorter man took his time to enjoy the moment, but eventually decided to put Sherlock out of his misery.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Sherlock jumped and looked at John, startled. “The plan?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John sighed. “The plan. You know, of action? The way forward? The next step?” Sherlock looked down at the floor and furrowed his brows in discomfort. John sighed, but continued on. “I know you have to leave again,” he said calmly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Sherlock whispered, so soft that John almost didn’t hear him.

“No,” John agreed, “I suppose it’s not, but it’s necessary.” Sherlock looked at him with eyes that glistened with pain and regret.

“You’re not safe here,” said John.

“That’s of little consequence,” Sherlock snapped. “The issue is that _you_ are not safe with _me_ here.”

“Sherlock,” John warned angrily. “Don’t.”

“It’s true, John. You won’t be safe, truly safe, until I’ve successfully managed to dismantle Morarity’s web.”

“I understand that.”

“Do you?” Sherlock asked, clearly distressed. “Do you understand the implications? It may be months, years even, before I see you again.”

“That doesn’t matter to me,” John croaked. “As long as I know you’re alive.”

“You say that now –‘’

“Sherlock,” John cut him off, “what is it that’s actually bothering you?”

Sherlock clung to his cup of tea like he was a man drowning and it was his only lifeline. He stared at John with fearful eyes before speaking. “I’m scared, John. I’m scared you’ll go back to Afghanistan.”

John looked at him sympathetically and sighed, suddenly feeling extremely guilty. He made sure he had Sherlock’s attention and his gaze before he next spoke. “Knowing that you’re alive means that I won’t have to, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly and tried to force a smile.

“I know that’s not the only thing bothering you though, so spit it out before we both go grey with age.”

“I –‘’ Sherlock began. “I know it’s not fair, for me to ask this of you, so I won’t. I won’t ask you to wait for me, even though I wish you would.”

“You know, it amazes me how you have the audacious inclination to tell people they’re stupid, on a daily basis, and yet you don’t realise how thick you can be as well.”

Sherlock scrunched his face up at the very idea. “All you had to say was ‘no,’ John, I don’t see how insulting me contributes to the productivity of this conversation.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, rising from his chair and walking to the one opposite. He knelt down in front of Sherlock and looked him in the eye. “Waiting for you would be my privilege. I don’t know why you find that so hard to believe.”

“I don’t deserve you, John; and you deserve someone infinitely better than me. You’re honest, so pure and so compassionate and I… well… I’m not.”

“Opposites attract,” John countered mischievously.

“Be serious, John!”

Sherlock’s aggravation was palpable. He didn’t _do_ emotions, after all, and it was obvious that this entire exercise was draining him, putting him on the defensive.

“I’m not being serious about that statement, because it’s not true. That’s all there is to it.” John patted Sherlock’s knee in finality and stood up.

“John –‘’

“As far as I’m concerned, this discussion is over.” He then leant forward and kissed Sherlock firmly on the mouth. It was short-lived, however, when John was forced to pull back to laugh as Sherlock spilt his tea all over his person – clearly not having anticipated such a spontaneous and passionate action from John.

John snorted. “And you say I’m the one who’s melodramatic?”

“Give me some credit, John; I was rather taken by surprise.”

“I didn’t think that could actually happen to you.”

Sherlock smiled. “Just one of the many things you have yet to learn about me, I suppose.”

John nodded his agreement. “Speaking of which, this week is moving far too fast for my liking. We only have so much time left. Let’s make the most of it.” Sherlock’s face broke into a smile, something which John had previously thought to be totally uncharacteristic of him. John held out his hand, and Sherlock took it.

Though time was pivotal, the pair also deemed it irrelevant for the duration of the next few days. There was much that still needed to be said, and there was certainly much that still needed to be done, but underlying this was a promise. It may not have been explicitly stated through words, but it was profound and unerring in its commitment; a pact that they both had total faith in, and knew, with unwavering certainty, would not be broken.

So, when Molly Hooper entered the flat a few days later, nervous and anticipating the worst, she was greeted with the smiling faces of two people that she thought she would never see amicably together again.

“Alright?” Molly asked.

The pair looked at each and grinned knowingly, choosing to see the light in a moment that was now bittersweet. A few seconds passed, and the unanswered question lingered. It was Sherlock, in the end, who put words to what, up until now, had yet to be said.

“Yes Molly,” Sherlock beamed. “I rather believe we are.”


End file.
